


the wallflower

by 21grams (ishgard)



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, When a Man Loves a Guardian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22096603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishgard/pseuds/21grams
Summary: “Be silent,” growls Jolyon. His head is splitting. He thinks he’s going to be sick. “I’m thinking.”“Take your time,” says the earnest Ghost, as though he hadn’t just brutally murdered the thing’s partner.
Relationships: Uldren Sov/Jolyon Till the Rachis
Comments: 36
Kudos: 162





	the wallflower

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [Hurry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualHurry/pseuds/ActualHurry) for beta'ing!

For the last two weeks, Jolyon has patrolled a section of Rheasilvia with the apathy of a cat being told to get off the table. When Ketto Rhul points out his vacant expression, she asks him if he’s bored with his “dead assignment”.

No, he tells her. He’s used to boredom. Prefers it. _Relishes_ it, even. Boredom is safe. Boredom means your people get out alive. Boredom means that, for the time being, shit’s manageable even if it’s awful. Jolyon has never been a thrill seeker.

He’s never been one to pay much attention to Guardians either, but he’s got an eye for patterns. There’s a caped one that likes to stick to his route. He doesn’t appear to be part of a team and he never picks up assignments from Petra. In fact, he seems to avoid contact altogether, preferring the company of the caves and his chatty machine. 

Today Jolyon sits atop a plasma-scorched knoll and pays little attention to the Guardian. The guy’s predictable: He shows up, watches some Taken from a safe distance, looks around for a few minutes, and then vanishes. He might shake it up and pick some baryon boughs to keep things fresh. 

Where he scuttles off to when he’s done, Jolyon has no clue. He doesn’t care. He cares about very little these days.

The smell of ozone makes him switch his target from a raving Ravager beating a rock with its cauldron to the solitary Guardian crouching behind a copse of trees. Astral lightning courses between his fingertips and illuminates his fathomless mask. “That’s it!” says his companion drone, a touch of pride in its voice. “See, I knew you could do it.” 

They don’t appear to notice Jolyon, who is neither hiding nor interested in announcing his presence. He’s mildly interested when a glowing staff forms between the Guardian’s leather palms, because it’s not a trick he’s seen before. The hooded Lightbearers out here usually play with fire knives or the Void. 

The Guardian bolts with unnatural speed at the Scorn while twirling his staff behind him like a baton, lightning kissing his heels as he darts forward. He sidesteps the brutal cauldron-on-a-chain and takes advantage of his foe’s gangly limbs to drive the staff into the throat of the wretched creature. It grunts in agony as its miserable life is snuffed out. And because nothing the Lightbearers do is ever ordinary, the Scorn explodes into a shower of blue mist and sparks. 

Somehow, none of the gore makes it onto the Guardian’s pristine white cape. Nor is it set aflame when the man grinds the cauldron beneath his boot to cinders.

Still crackling with Light, the Guardian vaults over the horde of Scorn that descend upon him at the sound of their ilk’s death. It almost seems like he’s dancing with how gracefully he weaves in and around the mob, shrugging off burns that would sear the flesh off Jolyon’s Crows. 

He’s impressed when the Guardian dispatches enemies faster than he can snipe them. Jolyon’s no slouch, but it is a little hard to aim for the head when everything within a thirty foot radius is vaporized at breakneck speed. 

He does save the man’s life from an Abomination that got just a little too close, pleased when the Guardian dives out of the way before the brute’s body can crush him. Even if he was never in any real danger, Jolyon counts it as a win.

Once the Scorn are dead, the Guardian turns to glance in Jolyon’s direction, but he’s already gone.

Three days later the Guardian is back at his usual haunt, which is Jolyon’s usual haunt, too. He sits cross-legged among the trees with his lunch as he reviews his Crows’ assignments. For once, Rheasilvia is relatively quiet. The only sounds disturbing Jolyon’s peace are from the chittering diamond that follows the Guardian around.

“You’re good with a hand cannon,” chirps the little machine. It perches on its Lightbearer’s shoulder while he examines various weapons laid out on the ground, a buffet for a Guardian. “All Hunters like hand cannons. Do you want to use it?” 

The man’s shoulders stiffen. He rasps, “No,” in a cold, brittle voice. One of his hands clench into a fist.

“Okay,” returns the Ghost, just as happily as before. It transmats the hand cannon away, leaving the rest of the arsenal out for its partner. Jolyon can’t help but think of a doting parent inviting their child to pick a toy. “Whichever one you want to take will be good,” it adds, as though a grown man needs reminding that he is free to decide for himself. 

Perhaps he does need the reminder, Jolyon thinks, because when the Guardian looks back down at the array of weapons, he hesitates. 

After deliberating a moment longer the hooded man bends down and picks up an old sniper rifle. He slings it over his back without another word. “Let’s go,” he tells the Ghost, who dutifully floats after him.

Unable to stave off his curiosity or ignore an opportunity to judge another’s marksmanship, Jolyon quietly trails behind with his own rifle. 

The Guardian is a natural. He starts small, picking off Taken Psions and Vandals with surgical precision. He successfully lures a curious Ogre out of its hiding place with all the bodies of its kin piling up outside the mouth of a cave. The beast stumbles, and then crashes to its knees from three successive rounds into his bulging, tumorous head. 

A rueful grin flickers across Jolyon’s mouth at the sight of such clean work. This man could show the younger Crows a thing or two.

The Ghost reappears in front of the Guardian and wiggles in excitement, clearly pleased. In reply, the man removes his helmet and offers the drone a shy grin.

Jolyon’s heart stops. His trigger finger doesn’t. 

He fires. 

Uldren flinches. For a moment, it looks as though his thick skull saved him for once — then he crumples lifelessly to the ground, blood oozing from the bullet wound in his head and mixing with the Taken ichor all around him.

The Ghost cries out for its partner. Instead of fleeing for safety, it quickly disassembles itself and hovers above Uldren’s body, ready to pull him back to his feet. 

“Get away from him,” Jolyon barks. He steps out from the trees, drawing his sidearm and pointing it at the center of the Ghost. “You stand in violation of the Queen’s law. Surrender yourself, and you will be treated fairly.” 

Paladin words. They don’t sit well in his mouth. 

To his chagrin, the guileless machine replies, “I don’t know any of the Queen’s laws. Which one have I broken? Please tell me.” 

Jolyon’s hands relax a fraction on the grip. Uldren - the Guardian - is still dead, presumably because the Ghost will not revive him until the coast is clear. The little drone is trapped between a corpse and the deadliest shot in the Reef. It’s no threat. 

The newly-minted Master of Crows squares his shoulders. He parrots, “You have committed…” and stops. 

What does “resurrecting the deposed Awoken Prince to serve in a foreign, immortal army” fall under? Kidnapping? Corpse mutilation? Conspiracy?

“Is it because we shot more Taken than the allotted amount to Guardians? I know the Corsairs are very particular. They have quotas, don’t they?” 

“Be silent,” growls Jolyon. His head is splitting. He thinks he’s going to be sick. “I’m thinking.” 

“Take your time,” says the earnest Ghost, as though he hadn’t just brutally murdered the thing’s partner.

Jolyon lowers his sidearm and cautiously approaches Uldren like he’s a bomb set to go off at the slightest touch. The Ghost watches him carefully, seemingly unafraid for its own life.

He kneels next to the body and brushes a lock of bloody hair behind Uldren’s ear, his sure fingers trembling. Jolyon forces himself to look at the entry wound. His work is admirable -- Uldren died swiftly. Awoken weapons aren’t made to torture, after all. He teaches his Crows to never play with their prey, but to put them down with minimal suffering.

And yet that doesn’t absolve Jolyon of what he’d done. What he’d do again, if it meant protecting the Awoken people.

He swallows a rising wave of guilt and nausea and presses his lips to Uldren’s forehead. He’s still warm. Death’s chill hasn’t taken him yet. 

Jolyon draws a breath - and then expels it in a gasp.

His little touches had caused a small silver band to tumble from where it’d gotten caught under Uldren’s collar. Jolyon recognizes it instantly, and wishes he hadn’t. 

He’d given Uldren that ring. It was - it was a stupid, deeply sentimental gift that meant nothing at all and too much at once. Uldren didn’t even wear jewelry. But he’d smiled at Jolyon like it was the perfect move, and kept it near his heart. Sometimes, when he wanted to beseech Jolyon to join him on another one of his grand schemes, he’d smirk and place his hand on his own chest as though to say, _Trust me_. And then he’d clutch the ring in his hand, and Jolyon was his. Always. 

Uldren made love to Jolyon with that ring around his neck. He wore it when he murdered their people. He still wore it when he couldn’t remember who Jolyon was, when he stood before their arbiters and blandly accepted death. And if he’s wearing it now along with his burial shroud, then that means Petra laid him to rest with it, knowing that’s what Uldren would’ve wanted a thousand lifetimes ago. 

Jolyon grips the necklace like a lifeline. “This man…” 

He stares up at the Ghost, his sharp eyes brimming with hate. He’s been hollow and raw since the funeral but now all of his agony, all of his rage comes boiling to the surface as hot tears roll down his cheeks. “This man is our Prince,” Jolyon snarls. “It was not enough that Riven stole his mind, so you had to go and steal his body?” 

He shudders under the weight of the last three weeks crashing down on him. Were he not already on the ground, Jolyon might have collapsed from just how badly his legs were shaking. “Is nothing sacred to you _fucking_ Guardians? Can we not grieve? Can we not forget?” he shouts. In his wild grief he grabs for the drone intending to smash it to the ground, mercy be damned. “Our home is destroyed and our people are dying, and you -”

“He’s a prince no longer,” replies the drone, phasing out before Jolyon can touch it. Its disembodied voice is soft and clear. “Guardians remember nothing of their old lives. We don’t know why. All we Ghosts do is guide them to what we think is their purpose as dictated by the Traveler. A lot of them - most of them - fight for humanity. Others can’t bring themselves to fulfill this for reasons of their own, so they set out from the City, and we follow.

“In the end,” it continues heavily, sounding far older and wiser than before, “it’s entirely their choice as to what they’ll do.” 

It shimmers back into existence, lowering itself until it’s eye level with Jolyon. It says, “I’m not his keeper. I’m his friend.” 

“He’s -” Jolyon can’t breathe. This isn’t happening. There’s ice in his lungs, and soon the shards will pierce his throat. This _isn’t_ happening. 

Voice cracking, he whispers miserably, “He was mine first.”

“I’m sorry,” says the Ghost, gently, and to Jolyon’s confusion, it sounds like it means it. There is no malice in its words, no mockery of his feelings, no judgment of his actions. There’s only open, honest sympathy. “But when he died, he became his own.” 

Jolyon chokes back a sob. He releases the chain. 

“Where are you going?” It’s genuinely concerned.

“To my ship,” Jolyon answers dully, marching in the wrong direction, to Petra’s watchtower. 

Undeterred, the tinny voice trails after him. “Do you want to talk to him? I can’t promise he’ll trust you after you shot him, but…” The Ghost pulls its segments back to his core, and bobs hopefully in his direction like a pond lantern in the Queen’s garden. “I’ll vouch for you. He must’ve meant a lot to you.” 

“I… no. No. Just take better care of him,” Jolyon returns, weary; his anger, having fled as soon as it came, has left naught but exhaustion in its wake. 

He blinks at the bloody crown of his Prince. “I did a poor job of it.” 

As natural as water returning to its calm state after being disturbed, Jolyon’s face smooths back into detachment. His eyes are dry, now. Compartmentalization is a crucial skill for a Crow, and he’s no different. 

Jolyon shrugs off his Supremacy like tearing off an old bandage. “Here,” he adds gruffly, laying his rifle near - the body. “It’s better than that thing.” 

Cheerfully, the Ghost pipes back up. “Guardians are very fond of weapons. I know he’ll love it.” 

“Sure.” Its words are almost soothing. 

Jolyon sits for a long time next to Petra. He likes that she doesn’t attempt small talk -- she just continues to watch the horizon, always looking toward the future. The past never keeps her down like the rest of them.

After three hours of silence, he says, “I saw a ghost.”

“There are lots of them now,” Petra answers. Her leg bumps against his shoulder when he pulls his knees up. “I see them every day.”

Jolyon almost smiles. “I might see one tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :^)


End file.
